Take This Breath for the Hollow Souls We Own
by Lunatic Silver
Summary: "If only it was that easy, Little Bird." Sansa decides to erase one hurt with another. Slight AU. Follow up to 'Feed Me Breadcrumbs From Your Hands.'


**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Game of Thrones _nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.

**Note:** Follow up fic to 'Feed Me Breadcrumbs From Your Hands'. Slight AU. Title comes from 'Black is the Colour of My True Love's Heart' by Neverending White Lights. Which, I also don't own. Feedback is greatly appreciated! :)

**Warning:** Disturbed!Traumatized!Sansa.

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><p><strong>Take This Breath for the Hollow Souls We Own<strong>

There are moments where Sansa forgets, for a short while, that she fears The Hound. Where she wishes that her time alone with Sandor Clegane was not always spent walking to and from court. When they are alone, he will talk to her. He will tell her the truth, in ugly words to match his ugly face.

(Only Sansa does not like to think of him as ugly anymore. Joffrey is ugly, the worst kind; ugly on the inside. The Hound cannot hide his ugliness, and Sansa has come to appreciate the fact.)

Walking back to her chambers, this is one of those moments. Only neither of them has spoken since leaving court. Her blood pounds loudly in her ears, and she feels bruises forming on her arms, her stomach; the side of her head that's wet and swollen. Beside her, The Hound's steps echo down the walkway, the rustle of his mail and armor loud in her ears.

Sansa is silent as she somehow manages to keep up with his stride. She wants to speak, but her throat is tight. Her fear of him might be forgotten, but she's currently struggling with the sobs threatening to break her down. _Not until I am in my room_, she tells herself. Over and over, _Not until I'm in my room_.

The Hound does not say a word either, and his silence only aggravates the throbbing pain of where she was hit. Why won't he speak to her now, when she needs his ugly, mean words most? Though her gaze flickers towards him, desperately trying to will him to talk to her, he remains tight-lipped.

_I could tell him I know the truth of his burns. I could tell him, and then he would probably hurt me._

Once that thought made her blood run cold. Now she finds herself perversely tempted, because then it would be a pain she truly did bring on herself. A punishment for something real, something her own.

(And deep down, Sansa thinks she would rather wear bruises given by The Hound than by the likes of Ser Meryn or Ser Boros.)

"If you keep showing them that spark, they will only try harder to snuff it out," he finally growls. His voice is rough but hushed; as if he's sharing a secret with her that he knows he shouldn't. He glances at her, eyes focusing on the bloody mess around her ear.

_I could tell him_, she thinks. _Share my secret, that I know his._

It hangs between them, like a lie that isn't known but suspected; maybe he thinks she still finds him horrible to look at. But he's been so honest to her. Mean and mocking, but it's far sweeter than the honeyed words of Joffrey and the queen, their promises and reassurances before they tore her world apart.

_I could tell him._

Sandor stops and - almost gently - grabs her shoulder. He reaches for her hand, the one clutching the blood-stained cloth he gave her not quite a month ago. "You're bleeding all over your pretty dress," he tells her. There's the mocking, the bitter tone that doesn't offer her a false comfort. He takes the cloth and - almost awkwardly - wipes up the blood.

_I could tell him_, she thinks. It hurts so much, the pressure of his fingers pressing the cloth to the side of her face. _I could tell him, and maybe he would hit me so hard I might black out and not feel the pain._

"Steady, girl," he grunts. The hand on her shoulder grips her firmer to stop her swaying; she had not even noticed.

_I could tell him._

Deep down, she wonders if she has a death wish. It's on the tip of her tongue, the truth; that she knows his brother is the one who ruined his face and stole his childhood and turned him bitter. There is a sort of madness gripping her; a numbness much like the one that filled her when she stepped towards Joffrey to push him over the edge.

Only now there is no one to come between her and The Hound.

(Even if Ser Boros or Ser Meryn or any of the others were there, they would not come between her and The Hound. Not because they would be useless, as Lord Baelish suggested. Because they would not care; knights, the lot of them, like his horrible brother. And it was the dog that had shown her any sort of kindness.)

Sansa blinks as her eyes grow too hot. Tears, wet and warm, slip down her cheeks, but she stares up at him blank-faced and whispers, "He is no true knight."

Sandor Clegane stares at her. It is not the first time he has looked at her as if she's gone daft, but the puzzlement on his face almost - almost - makes her giggle.

"Your brother," she says instead. She sways again when his hand loosens, and sighs when his grip then tightens painfully (now she will wear his bruises over Ser Meryn's).

"What about my bloody brother?" he asks. This is a new tone; a cold snarl that should _terrify _her.

(How can anything ever truly terrify her after watching him hold her father's head for the crowd to cheer at while other men carried off her father's headless corpse?)

Sansa closes her eyes. She feels drowsy from the throbbing. "Lord Baelish told me. What your brother did to you." Her eyes open when she feels fingers reflexively curl into her shoulder. It's a harsh pain that distracts her from the throb. She stares at the rage twisting his face, and she is frightened and anxious and hopeful all at once. "He is a monster."

"And I'm not, is that what you think?" he snarls. His hand moves from her shoulder to her arm - to the soreness where Ser Boros held her while Ser Meryn struck her. He grips tight, and she cries out. But there is no resisting as he stalks the rest of the way to her room and shoves her in and slams her back against the wall.

Pain reverberates through her, rattling her bones, and she is crying, she feels the hot tears on her cheeks, but her fingers clasp The Hound's tunic. _Please don't stop, don't stop until I cannot feel any more pain._

"Don't go filling your head with thoughts that I'm any sort of decent, you hear me, girl?" His face is close to hers, his breath hot on her skin. The scent of his sweat and wine on his breath is heady and unpleasant.

"He said if you knew, all the knights in King's Landing couldn't save me," she whispers. But all the knights in King's Landing beat her at Joffrey's command.

Sandor stares at her. He's shaking, both hands gripping both of her bruised arms now. His fingers will leave marks to cover the others; this pain will replace the pain Joffrey ordered given to her. He looks as though he will snap. Maybe he will become a rabid dog, and will rip her apart.

Sansa whimpers because now she cannot get the memory of Lady and what a gentle creature her direwolf was out of her head.

"Then why in the seven hells did you tell me?"

"Because it wasn't right. Not telling you. You are always honest with me, and I was hiding it from you." (She does not say the part about wanting him to hurt her, hurt her so badly that she doesn't feel it. That maybe she blacks out and wakes up without remembering anything, any of the pain and the heartache and all the bleeding, burning wounds Joffrey and the queen keep giving her, seen and unseen.)

His grip is loosening. He's still tense and shaking, but he's pulling away.

Sansa whimpers again, because she has lost Lady and Arya and her father, and she will likely never see her mother and her brothers again. Why does she have to lose the heat of Sandor Clegane's fury when she did what she knew would bring it down on her?

"Please," she breathes.

The Hound grabs her chin and makes her look at him. "Please what, girl?" he growls.

"Please, just make it stop hurting."

Sandor's eyes soften. His fingers move to her hair, and he looks her over. The tension seems to leave his body when he lets out a heavy sigh. He speaks, and Sansa knows he speaks from experience. "If only it was that easy, little bird."


End file.
